I’m (in) my own nail salon, watching my paint dry.
The solvent evaporates slowly, and I am left doing nothing, suspended in between moments.
Something this floaty, this airy, defies any attempt at grasping.
White Castle plays, but what is White Castle? Surely we can find, somewhere in the US, the physical deposits of the process of nail polish drying. A burger, its constituent parts almost separate, almost the Platonic ideal of a burger: hard to believe anyone would eat it. A building. Someone, nevertheless, eating that burger, inside that building. The experience of that moment. Is that White Castle?
Or is it the the bits that have evaporated, the sublime having left the solid remains? A mythical White Castle, chased by those in search of the perfect burger in the perfect moment. A cloud castle, composed of sounds and smells.
The minimality of that which has evaporated tells the story, implicitly, of the messy, dirty, imperfect, lovely reality below.
My nails are about done.